


Dying is Easy, Living is Hard

by blackchaps



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, No Beta, Submission, Suicidal Thoughts, suicidal idealization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23323045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackchaps/pseuds/blackchaps
Summary: John doesn't have much interest in going on, but Finch is going to give him a purpose, whether he likes it or not. The Machine plays a great sidekick.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 36
Kudos: 116





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, so if you see something gross, please tell me. Much talk of suicide in this one, so please protect yourself! Let me know what you think, if you have time, I may write more in this universe.

***

It was difficult to think clearly, most days. He knew why, but he no longer cared to try to seek out the remedy. Dying in a New York City alley seemed fitting, somehow. The rats would chew on him, and no one would give one shit that he was dead.

Sounded fine to him.

“Are you real?” John had to ask, just once. Hallucinations were common, in the last days, and he really wanted to know if he was at that stage.

“I assure you, Mr. Reese, that I am quite real.” The little fellow, dressed in a suit that cost more than John had made this year, didn’t look real. He looked… John couldn’t think of a word. John tilted his head, trying to smell him, but the wind was fierce down by the bridge. The odd man said, “You may call me, Mr. Finch.”

“I don’t have much longer, so I guess it’s better than sitting around.” John was very sure he’d be fired within the week. He could barely function, on a good day.

“A ringing endorsement.” Finch gestured at one of his bodyguards – amateurs – and the guy handed John a phone with only a slight flair of his nostrils. He also dug out a wad of cash and John took that with a lot more enthusiasm. Finch stayed back, which was probably smart of him, given how long it’d been since John had showered. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning with directions.”

“Whatever.” John got his boots moving towards a cheap flophouse, but he was careful that they didn’t follow him. He did hear the security guard ask Finch if he’d lost his mind. That made him smile.

The shower felt almost sinful, washing away the dirt of New York, and he was glad he’d stopped to spend money on new clothes and a good shaver. When he was clean and re-dressed, he felt almost healthy. There was a bit of fatigue in his back muscles, but he knew he was up to taking a punch or two.

Dominoes brought him pizza, and he didn’t imagine the look of disgust before the tipped the young lady. She took the money, though, so her morals weren’t that binding. Some people just hated his kind, and since he hated himself, he didn’t blame them a bit.

The food put him to sleep, and when he jolted awake, panicked in the middle of the night, he ate the rest of it before closing his eyes again. The damn phone got him up the second time, and he nearly threw it at the door, but he was curious about the little guy. What the hell was he thinking?

“Are you up, Mr. Reese?” Finch sounded like a morning person, another strike against him.

“I am now.” John slurped down the last of his soda and cradled his head, ignoring the voice from the phone on the bed. “My head is killing me,” he muttered. He knew why, but if he were going to work, he’d have to forget the whiskey that dulled it.

“Meet me at Times Square, please.” The phone turned off.

“Shit.” John found his boots and got moving that direction, but he stopped for iced white chocolate mocha with a triple shot. When he spotted Finch, he trudged that direction, not even trying to look enthusiastic.

“I saw you more as a black coffee sort of person,” Finch said, putting his hands firmly in his pockets.

John had seen that move a number of times in his life. No one ever shook his hand in greeting, unless they wanted to kill him. Finch had a hat on today and another expensive suit. The bodyguards weren’t close, but they were watching. “Sugar and caffeine fight the urge for a bottle of whiskey.”

“I do think this job will require sobriety.” Finch was carefully keeping his distance.

Listening to him explain the job almost made John sigh. This was like the CIA, but with less intel, and he could’ve done the job easily last year. Right now, however, he was a whole other person. Focusing on the details, John followed him through the city, and they ended up in an abandoned library.

“Credit cards, multiple identities, much like what you’re used to.” Finch bustled about the large oak desk, clearly in his nest, and John stared for the longest time, not even sure what to do. He could hear his blood trying to stir to life, and he would’ve run, but his feet were rooted into the old floor. Finch printed out several pictures, posting them on a broken piece of glass.

And John finally managed to get some air in his lungs. “You should find another Alpha.” He heard himself growl out each individual word from far away.

Finch narrowed his eyes. “Sexual orientation has nothing to do with one’s ability to get a job done. I hired you because you’re very good at this.”

“Spoken like a true beta.” John eased away and sat down in a chair. He breathed through his mouth, trying to make his sexual orientation shut the hell up. “You said you know everything about me.”

“I do.” Finch sounded confident. He was at the computer now. “I assure you, Mr. Reese, I’m not prejudiced against Alphas.”

John almost laughed. He strode to the desk, held his breath, and retrieved the cards and IDs quickly. Stuffing everything in pockets, he moved towards the door. This job. He’d do it, and then he’d find a spot to give in to the chaos building in his body. One thing he would not do was inconvenience anyone with his death.

“Stay in touch!”

“Will do.” John forced air into his lungs, breathing deep over and over again until all that was left was the stench of New York. The muscles in his back started to spasm, and he forced his mind to the job.

Do the job.

Die later.

Not dying until later turned out to be tricky, but he applied himself, ignoring his aches and pains and the little voice inside his head that whispered to just give in and let it happen.

When it was over, and he’d terrorized Fusco one last time, he got a text to meet back at the bridge. He didn’t want to, but he went, and he sat as far from Finch as he was able on the too-small bench. The wind was cold, whipping across their faces, and he couldn’t quite make out what Finch was saying over the pounding of his pulse.

Getting up from the bench, leaving, wasn’t possible, not yet. He managed to turn his head and look at him. “I’m not an Alpha. The bureau falsified the records. I’m a Solitarius.”

Whatever Finch had been saying stopped instantly, and as his mouth snapped shut, his eyes widened. He swallowed hard. John nodded. “I’m out of time, so…” He eased up, feeling a bizarre mix of stupid and happy. “See ya around.”

But he wouldn’t. He left him there, still sitting in shock. The sun went down as he walked, and all the ‘might-have-beens’ trailed him through the city. If Jessica had been compatible, maybe he’d have gone farther. Too many ‘ifs’ to count, and they’d all led him to a crappy hotel room where he was going to blow his brains out.

Waiting until his body fell apart, and he died on life support, wasn’t an option. No Solitarius took that route. Statistically, they were the smallest part of the population, but they all shared certain traits, stubbornness being among them.

The CIA had been gleeful to use him up until his expiration date. He should’ve died in China, but he hadn’t been smart enough. Now, Jessica was dead, and he wanted to go out on his own terms. He’d managed to help someone in one last case, and it was time.

The gun tucked into the small of his back would get the job done. He was glad he’d met Finch. The guy was sincerely trying to do some good in the world. He’d find an Alpha to help him. John was sure of it.

His phone beeped at him. He flipped it, saw the text from Finch, and sighed heavily as he found a place to stand out of the flow of people.

_Please don’t do this, Mr. Reese._

Well, the guy was a genius, so he’d figured out what John was going to do. No surprise. John didn’t answer. He sighed again and snapped the phone in half before tossing it in a dumpster.

It didn’t matter that Finch was an Omega.

They wouldn’t be compatible.

It didn’t matter that his smell had nearly driven John to his knees.

John shivered all over, tugged his coat closer, and started walking again. Trying would be humiliating. And Kara had piled enough of that on him over the years. He was done.

The ringing of a payphone made him look, but he didn’t slow down until he hit the third one. It was probably Finch, somehow. He jerked the receiver off, ready to hang it back up when he heard a mechanical voice.

_Compatibility. 78 percent. With. Admin._

Each word had been separated, even in a different voice, a mix of men and women. He stared at the phone for the longest time, feeling as if the world had just been yanked out from under his feet. When it all stopped spinning, he gently put the receiver back and headed for the nearest bar.

The first whiskey went down like a house on fire, and he took a deep breath before downing the second one. He wanted to put his head down on the booze-soaked wood bar and bang it vigorously.

“Hey, Alpha, I don’t want any trouble tonight, so that’s your last one.” The bartender kept a very respectful distance.

“Oh, there you are, Mr. Reese,” Finch said in a voice meant to carry. “Did you start without me?”

The bartender relaxed, and Finch somehow managed to get John up and moving to a back booth that still had good sightlines to the door. Coffee and tea were delivered, which didn’t seem possible, and Harold put in an order for food.

“They serve food here?”

“Of course.” Finch fussed with this and that, and John had to put his eyes on his coffee and keep them there. “So, can I assume you knew I was an Omega from the start?”

“Yes.” John kept his nose close to the steam of the coffee. “You fool most people though.”

“Good. I’ve never had any desire to be judged by my gender.” Finch sniffed like it was offensive to him. “I’m sure you find it tedious.”

John didn’t answer, adding sugar to his coffee. Everything was churning, and when he finally managed to look up, the only voice he had left was a whispered wreck. “Are _you_ admin?”

Finch put his tea down, oh so carefully, because his hand was shaking. “What happened?”

“Payphone.” John growled out the word and saw Finch grow pale. Finch’s eyes darted back and forth, and he delicately wet his lower lip with his tongue. John would’ve made a break for the door right then, but the waitress blocked his path with bowls of steaming hot chili and a big tray with all the fixings. His stomach insisted he stay and eat, maybe say thank you.

Carefully not meeting each other’s eyes, they prepared their chili and began eating. John finished all of his so quickly that the waitress brought him another serving. He managed to go slower on the second bowl, wondering if Finch would ever say anything.

“What was the message?” Finch finally asked in a voice that couldn’t be heard more than a foot away.

“Answer my question first,” John said, seeing the slight flinch.

Finch wiped his mouth with his napkin and gave an infinitesimal nod. Kara would’ve killed him for that attitude, Omega or not. John shoved aside all thoughts of her, again.

Seventy-eight percent chance that John could bond with Finch. There was no reason not to believe the Machine that knew everything, especially about its creator. It wasn’t a sure bet, and John might die anyway, but that had been the plan all along.

Grasping for the golden ring right before he died seemed like failure. He’d committed himself to dying. He wasn’t sure he wanted to change his path, even for a shot at years with a bonded by his side.

“John, please, don’t.” Finch leaned into those words, pushing his scent at him, trying to manipulate him with it. “We’ll find a solution.”

A cascade of emotions pushed John out of the booth and down the sidewalk. He hated that a small measure of hope was mixed into his anger and pain. There was no reason to trust Finch. Yes, he seemed like a paranoid billionaire on a crusade to stop violence one person at a time, but nothing was ever quite what it seemed.

Kara had taught him well to trust no one, question everything, and keep to the shadows, even in the dark. Trusting anyone was impossible.

A payphone rang, and he ignored it, ducking down an alley, and making his way unseen back to the library. Once there, he didn’t turn on the lights, he simply sat down in Finch’s chair and breathed.

There were choices to be made here. Finch had left his scarf on the desk, possibly in the rush to catch up with John, and the scent coming off it was strong, making it hard to think. So, all he did was breathe through his mouth. The gun pressed into the back of the chair, and slowly, he pulled it out and placed it directly next to the scarf.

One choice to be made here.

Seventy-eight percent chance with one. A hundred percent with the other.

The scarf was forest green, and even in the dark, John knew it had subtle blue stripes. It was cashmere, some sort of tartan. Finch would know the name. John wanted to touch it, and he supposed he could try one last time. The gun would always be there, and that was a comfort all its own.

There was also the bare knowledge that Finch wouldn’t laugh at John’s failure. Up on his feet, he slid the gun away and put the scarf around his neck, tucking the ends inside his coat. For some reason, he felt steadier now, probably the food.

He took a new phone and sent Finch a quick text to call him when there was a number. Not looking at the lightning fast reply, John slipped out into the night.


	2. Harold's Interlude

***

Pushing his scent at him was a mistake, Harold knew it the instant he’d done it. And watching all the color leach from John’s face had nearly made Harold grab him by the hand. But that would’ve been unforgiveable, so Harold sat silent as John bolted away as if he’d been struck.

The Solitarius had been severely abused over the years, and Harold had just added to it. He’d never forgive himself, but he wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing while John put a bullet in his brain.

A forty-three-year-old Solitarius was unheard of. Most died in their thirties, if they weren’t bonded. John must be incredibly strong.

Harold honestly felt a little light-headed even sitting across from him separated by four feet of oak table and bowls of chili. It was like being in the presence of a legend, and those cheekbones should be against the law.

Taking out his phone, he glared into the camera. “What did you do?” he whispered, knowing that his child had been meddling. The Machine had led him to Grace all those years ago, and now it appeared the Machine had spoken to John. “Stop it. He’s too fragile.”

The phone light stayed dim, and he sighed.

“Can I get you anything else, Omega?”

“No thank you, miss, just the bill, please.” Harold disliked appearing as an Omega, but it’d been necessary. He fumbled about, getting ready to leave, hating his leg and feeling remarkably useless. His scarf was missing, and Mr. Reese didn’t have a phone, and losing him just now that he’d found him seemed like fate at its cruelest.

Flustered, angry, he left a large tip with the bill and went out to the street. He looked right and left down the sidewalks, but he hadn’t expected to see him. A quality agent like Mr. Reese could disappear easily.

Not more than three blocks away, Harold had a safe house, so he went that direction. When he drew even to the security camera at the corner, he glared up at it. “You meddled, and he might die because of it.”

Of course, there was no answer. Truth was, Harold knew the blame would be his. He should’ve known, somehow, and he should’ve walked into that bar with answers instead of attitude. It was a failing all Omegas had: over-confidence.

He hated his biology. And honestly, he had no idea if he could bond with Mr. Reese. Form a bond deep enough to keep him alive? It might be impossible. Harold had many on-going health issues, and he’d never enjoyed touch, not even as a child.

Grace had loved him when he was a beta, but he’d made the mistake of moving in with her, and then his secret had been impossible to keep. It hadn’t mattered who he was, all that had mattered was the equipment between his legs, and she’d wanted no part of it.

Promising her complete celibacy had been another mistake, and he’d been left with nothing but a bitter taste in his mouth and a newfound hatred for his biology. Unfortunately, now it was the only thing that could save Mr. Reese, and Harold had no doubt that if by some chance, he could convince Mr. Reese to try, the odds of them succeeding were small.

Very small.

And if there was one thing Harold knew, it was math. His phone beeped in the pattern that meant Mr. Reese was texting, and Harold’s heart was in his throat as he read the message.

Quickly, Harold shot off an answer. His legs gave out, and he sat on a nearby stoop with a small thump. He had a reprieve, and he couldn’t afford even one more clumsy mistake. Mr. Reese – John – his life depended on it.

***


	3. Mediatas

***

By eight a.m., John was pacing his tiny room, wishing like hell his phone would ring. It remained stubbornly silent and staring at it didn’t seem to encourage it. Disgusted, he packed all his meager possessions into a duffle bag, guns on top, and carefully settled the scarf around his neck. He turned in the key on his way out.

“Good riddance!” The words followed him out the main door, and he had heard it so many times that he didn’t even hunch his shoulders. Some Alphas would’ve gone back to fight about it. John wasn’t that kind of man. He never had been.

Kara had claimed he was the least aggressive Alpha she’d ever met. She hadn’t known he was a Solitarius, and John had kept it that way. Thirty percent enhancement in every category didn’t translate into more aggression.

When John had been told by a Army genetics counselor, the guy had been sympathetic. It was already late; he was in his twenties. He’d been flagged for testing by his sergeant. Usually parents picked up on the abnormalities in their child. John had been adopted, and his grieving mother hadn’t noticed his heightened sense of smell, taste, and everything else that came with being a Solitarius.

The CIA had hidden the classification, knowing that the best advantage was a secret one. By then, John had stopped worrying. He had Jessica. They were going to bond. It would be fine.

Shaking himself out of his maudlin memories, he picked up a coffee for himself and a Sencha tea for Finch. It was ridiculous, but it seemed rude not to get him something. John slipped into the Library, all senses alert, and he knew before he’d taken two steps that the Omega was in his nest.

“Sorry, I don’t drink coffee,” Finch said the instant he saw him.

John placed the cup very carefully down on the desk in front of him and retreated to his chair, pulling it even further away, hugging the far wall. It’d taken every ounce of willpower he owned not to crawl to him and beg for a touch.

God damn it.

“It’s the Sencha tea you like.” John managed the few words, creating an imaginary circle around the desk which he would not cross, not casually. “One sugar cube.”

Finch gave him a strange look, giving him a once over. “Thank you.”

“Tomorrow, I’ll guess your favorite color.” John smoothed the scarf around his neck, taking ownership of it and daring Finch to ask for it back. Finch didn’t rise to the bait, but he gave him a look. Then, he drank his tea with one hand and used his mouse with the other, radiating competence.

“We have a number.” Finch made the printer come to life. He straightened his spine even further, and John steeled himself against the next words out of Finch’s mouth. “Can you do this, Mr. Reese?”

John honestly wasn’t sure, but he nodded. The pain in his back was still there, but his mind was clear. It didn’t mean he was fit for duty. However, he'd been worse, so he was fine. “I’ve probably got a couple more years in me.”

“Comforting.” Finch was a master of dry wit. “I’m researching everything on your genetic condition.”

“I’m not surprised.” It fit Finch’s profile, not that John had lain awake creating one in his mind. Sleep probably would’ve been more productive, but John was what he’d been trained to be.

“It seemed prudent to proceed with all the information available.” Finch began taping up faces on the glass board. “Do you need anything from me?”

The question, soft and easy, full of truth and a hint of desire, nearly forced a groan from John’s lips. “No,” he growled, because saying yes, right now, and please, wasn’t possible. “It won’t work. Don’t think it will.”

“I am woefully uneducated when it comes to the ways of Alphas, much less a Solitarius such as yourself.” Finch wasn’t looking at him. “I was fairly sure they didn’t exist.”

John probably shouldn’t have told him. “But you’re an Omega.” It wasn’t the most intelligent thing he’d ever said.

“I presented late, and I’ve been acting as a beta all of my adult life, trying not to think about being an Omega!” Finch seemed upset, tossing the tape aside. He took a deep breath. “I apologize. It’s just not often I found myself at such a loss for comprehending how any of this is possible.”

That made sense.

“We have time. I’m nowhere near organ failure.” John could see his dry wit wasn’t calming Finch down. “Let’s work the number. The rest can wait.”

Finch sat down in front of his computer again. “Tell me if you need anything, Mr. Reese.”

Shrugging, John began to memorize the board. He’d do this, and then he’d worry about Finch and his lack of knowledge.

It was a simple case of intimidation and cracking heads until betas promised not to do it again. He had no trouble sniffing out lies, and everyone in the situation was honestly terrified. Finch had made him promise not to kill anyone, and while John had rolled his eyes, he hadn’t argued.

Next time, he might have to kill, but on this number, it wasn’t even worth discussing it. When the case was cleaned up, he hid in a shadow, just to be sure, thinking of his next move. His kit was back at the library, but two visits in one day seemed risky.

It wasn’t as if the bond would latch on, and after two numbers John was sure of his assessment. Harold Finch was a good man, not perfect, but able to think on his feet, and not capable of killing. He certainly didn’t deserve to be shackled to John for the rest of his life, and with the bond, it could be long indeed.

No one knew how long a Solitarius and their bonded could live, because they were inevitably murdered. That knowledge alone should keep every damn Solitarius from bonding, but there were a few things that John understood in his bones, and one of them was that people were stupid.

There was a small click in John’s ear, and he tapped his comm before thinking about it.

“Mr. Reese, there’s a diner three blocks east of your location. Would you care to join me for dinner?”

Turning him down was the automatic response, but the words stuck in John’s throat. He wanted to see him, and that needed to not happen.

“I’ll take your silence as an affirmative, Mr. Reese.” And the phone clicked off.

Taking the ear bud out and stomping on it wasn’t really an option. John was committed to the numbers now, and he sighed heavily as he started walking towards the diner. Some coffee would be nice, and if he were lucky, Finch had applied his Omega suppressor spray vigorously.

Finch didn’t glance up from his book even when John sat across from him. His scent was pure beta, and John was glad. At least he wouldn’t beg in public. Because that’s where this was heading, he just knew it. His control would break at some point.

“I took the liberty of ordering for you.” Finch liked to be in control. It was the Omega in him, but John wouldn’t call him out on it, not yet at least.

“As long as there’s coffee,” John growled, glad when he spotted the waitress and his coffee pot headed his way. He turned his cup over and added sugar before he poured. His hands shook a little, which was no shock. He wanted whiskey, not coffee.

Finch opened his mouth, shut it, and John was grateful. The pages on the book continued to turn, and John wondered if Finch were a speed reader, or if he just browsed the pages. The book was shut as the food arrived, and John’s stomach gave an appreciative growl at the smell of it. There was a lot of it, filling the table, and he doubted Finch was a big eater.

“I’m glad you’re hungry. Your clothes hang on you.” Finch revealed that he’d been looking at John’s body, and John felt his shoulders curl. Finch grimaced. “I apologize.”

“You do a lot of that around me.” John hated that his body language was so easy to read for this Omega. He was thin, but whiskey had limited nutrition in it, and Finch had no right to look.

“You require higher levels of protein to function, just one of the many facts of your biology that I learned today.” Finch was smart enough not to sound smug about it. “From my estimation, you need to triple your daily caloric intake, just to get back to optimum weight.”

“Not a lot of time to stuff my face while chasing your numbers.” John wiped his mouth and went back to eating.

“We will make time.” Finch bit out the words, as if this was his fight. He leaned forward, lowering his voice, and he was never loud in public. “You need to be in good health, bolstering our chance of success.”

“Not sure I care.” John said the words, shocked to see an actual wince flutter across Finch’s face. Finch cared. About him. It didn’t make a lot of sense from an Omega who had lived their entire life as a beta. John focused on his coffee and chicken-fried steak, trying not to think. No, thinking was fine. It was feeling that he had to avoid.

“Mr. Reese?”

“I’m eating.” John met those eyes for one bare instant, and even through the glasses, it made a shiver trace down his spine. “Like you wanted.”

“Good. See that you do.” Finch blushed, just a little, and only a Solitarius would’ve even spotted it. John allowed himself a small smirk and kept eating. Maybe he should involve himself in the research Finch was doing. John thought about it while he ate the mashed potatoes, but he wasn’t that interested.

If a bond latched on, it would, and he wasn’t going to over think it. He’d leave that to Finch.

***

John wasn’t counting numbers. He did notice that Finch kept meticulous records, but he was careful never to get too close to the desk, Finch’s nest, no matter the temptation.

It was very clear that Finch lived as a beta and preferred it that way. John honestly didn’t understand why Finch had agreed to even try to form a bond. But he had, and he’d done research, or so he said often, and he nagged, a lot, about what to eat and how often. When he was satisfied with John’s daily caloric intake, he’d start in on how many hours of sleep were required for optimum health.

It was exhausting: eating, hydrating, and sleeping, and John wanted to snarl at him. What kept him polite was the obvious, real concern.

“I see your bag by the bookcase. Are you relocating again?” Finch sounded worried.

Sipping his coffee gave him a moment. The number was finished; he probably should’ve gone home instead of delivering tea and sitting down to catch his breath. He was tired, tired down to his bones, which ached, but he’d come back to the Library as if it were his north star.

“I was thrown out, again.” John shrugged. He’d slept in a car two very brief nights in a row, and he might make that choice tonight. He didn’t care. “People hate Alphas. I get it.”

“Ugly prejudices,” Finch growled, actually glowering.

“I hate Alphas.” John kept his eyes on his coffee. He was starting to think that if Finch would go home, he could curl up in a corner for the night. There were blankets here. Maybe he could sneak a cot in sometime. He’d save money on rent. The silence finally made him look up. He met Finch’s eyes with only a small flinch. “Hey, you try to beat them up. Too much testosterone.”

Finch blinked at him several times. “You’re not aggressive like Alphas. I understand now. Fascinating.”

“Sure.” John hunched further into his coffee. It was past time to go somewhere.

“It does explain several things I’ve read and seen.”

John’s head jerked up almost against his will. “Seen? What are you talking about?”

“There are a number of depictions of Solitarius throughout history.” Finch reached and slowly turned the screen. The resolution was perfect, even though it was blown up. The Solitarius was kneeling for his Omega, arms restrained, face turned in supplication, with nothing but a scrap of cloth covering his genitals. It was beautiful, and horrible, and John couldn’t swallow.

Or breathe.

The coffee cup hit the floor, and John could hear Finch talking about tapestries and how beautifully preserved this one was, but the words were far away. He blinked down at the spilled coffee, thinking that he should clean it up.

If he went to his knees, would he ever be able to get up? John shuddered out a breath, pulling his gaze up. Finch had stopped talking. Their eyes met, and something deep inside John made him flinch like he’d been shot.

“Mr. Reese? Whatever you need from me is exactly how much I’ll give.” Finch sounded sure, rising to his feet. “Let me help.”

John couldn’t understand why Finch would want to, not even a little. The man had no interest in his Omega functions, and John must epitomize everything Finch hated. Finding words to say to him seemed impossible. His throat was thick, and he could feel his heart thumping. He shut his eyes, hands hanging limp, trying to think.

He was just so damn tired.

“Let me help, if I can.” Finch put his hand on John’s shoulder, standing so close that John could almost taste him. All the barriers John had painstakingly put in place over the last few weeks of running numbers came crashing down. “John.”

“Damn it, Finch,” John muttered, turning enough to go to his knees in front of him without landing on his shined shoes. He leaned his face into Finch’s hand, so glad when the touch came. It held him up. It gave him purpose.

One touch, and he was gone. His head felt like it was floating away, and he was pretty sure he groaned. It was terrifying and exhilarating. He wanted to bear him to the floor, curl around him and never move again.

“Sorry. I know you never wanted anything like this.” John locked his muscles into place, so he didn’t further humiliate himself.

“I never envisioned this,” Finch said, honesty clear in his voice. “But I can say that it’s no hardship.”

Finch’s thumb caressed John’s cheekbone. “The bond is taking root in me. I know when you’re hungry, tired, or just annoyed.”

“Shit.” John meant that. Some part of him had hoped they would fail. That Finch wouldn’t be burdened with him. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You could give a master’s class in denial.” Finch gave him a tiny shake. “And lying.”

“I have faults.” John knew this was a mistake, but it seemed they were making it together. He wasn’t sure which was worse: the embarrassment or the flush of relief. They were bonding. It hadn’t been just wishful thinking on his part.

“Now, get up before the coffee stains your trousers. We’re going for a late dinner.” Finch got him up with only slight pressure. “And get your bag, I’m taking you somewhere safe, so you can rest.”

First, John cleaned up his mess while Finch shut down his computers. They went to lock up together, and John followed him closely out to the street. It was easy like nothing had ever been to walk right at his shoulder, matching his pace.

“We both have many adjustments to make, but I think this is a good beginning,” Finch said, leading the way.

And for the first time in years, John trusted when he followed.

***


	4. Finch's Epilogue

***

No number yet, and Harold could forgive himself for enjoying this moment alone with his Solitarius. They were rare and precious, given their current workload.

John dozed, face pressed against Harold’s bare feet. They were exploring the touches they both felt comfortable with, and Harold had no idea why John found this acceptable. Harold had been shocked that he didn’t mind it, after blushing when he’d taken off his shoes and socks. John had just curled up, given him a lazy kiss on the arch of his foot, and gone to sleep.

Harold leaned enough to card his hand through John’s hair, feeling his satisfaction. The bond was heady, and Harold shut his eyes to revel in John’s happiness. He had no idea how this had happened to him so late in life, and there was no guarantee they would have very long together.

“Stop thinking so loud,” John muttered, rolling to his other side on the thick mat Harold had put on the floor near his chair.

“Sorry,” Harold whispered, tugging John’s blanket up a bit higher. He put his mind back into his computer program. Later, they’d go eat and then head home. Maybe they’d hold hands, if he could tolerate it. John never pushed him. One of the many benefits of the bond was an understanding of each other’s needs.

A dormant program flashed a code in the corner of his screen. He sighed and rolled his eyes at the smug message. “Brat,” he muttered.

***  
End


End file.
